I got the wakeup call at 4:30 a.m. on Sunday, October 10,
2004. The hotel would have a shuttle bus to the Miami airport at
5:00 o'clock a.m., so I threw on my clothes and hustled out to
the lobby with my gear-a track bike packed in a cardboard box, my
road bike, packed in a hard plastic case, a duffle bag and a
laptop. Our flight to Havana was scheduled to leave at 8:00 a.m.
and we needed to be at the airport by shortly after 5:00 a.m. to
begin the laborious check-in process.

Direct travel between the U.S, and Cuba has been prohibited
for many years under the embargo imposed by our government, but
there are exceptions. American citizens, for example, have been
permitted to travel to Cuba to visit family members, and travel
is possible for legitimate scientific, educational and cultural
purposes. We are traveling under the exception for sports teams
competing in sanctioned international competitions. Along with 30
or so other American bike racers, I am going to the UCI Pan
American Masters Cycling Championships, which are going to be
held in the greater Havana area over the next five days. Two days
of track racing will include match sprints, a 500meter time
trial, individual pursuits, points races and scratch races. The
road events will include an individual time trial, a road race
and a criterium. The distances will vary according to age
groups.

So this is a perfectly legal trip, not some shady undercover
venture to the mysterious island of Cuba through Canada or
Mexico. Nonetheless, we are subjected to the highest level of
security at every step. They will scrutinize our passports, our
visas, our tickets, our invitation letters from the USCF, not to
mention open and thoroughly search our bike boxes, checked
luggage and carry on bags. And, of course, the shoes. It's hard
to believe that one wacko who had the crazy idea of putting
explosives in his sneakers has resulted in millions of people the
world over walking barefoot through airport metal detectors.

Our check in line at American Airlines is already fifty feet
long when I arrive at concourse D. It's all cyclists with bikes,
wheels and luggage piled on carts. Thirty-one racers in all will
make this trip, along with a handful of support personnel. I say
hello to a few people: NJ 45+ warrior Earl Peretti, who I race
against every week, multiple world track champion Earl Henry,
former Argentina national team member Mike Lyach. There are a lot
of T-shirts here, and read together, they are an impressive
resume. About half of them are from either the masters nationals,
track or road, or the masters track worlds in Manchester England.
Several proclaim state championships. There's at least one
ironman and one RAAM (Race Across America). My T-shirt simply
says Carhart.

It takes about an hour to get checked in. There's a problem
here that we don't normally encounter when we travel by air in
this country. It seems the plane may not be big enough to carry
our entire luggage. We are not flying on a jumbo jet, but rather
on a twin turbo prop plane, and the cargo space is limited. The
bikes, of course, create the issue. So a couple of guys are,
under Mike Fraysse's supervision, trying to sort the bikes into
two groups-track bikes, which we will need for the races the next
day, and road bikes, which we will not need until Wednesday. Gus
Ferrar is marking the bikes with duct tape. "Can you mark this?
Gus," I ask, handing him my wheelbag with the Zipp rear disc and
deep dish carbon fiber front wheel. "It's for the track?" he
asks. I tell him it is, and he puts a piece of duct tape on the
wheelbag, on which he writes "Vuelo #1." Flight # 1. Vuelo also
means lap in Spanish, I later learn. The road bikes may have to
wait for a later flight. This doesn't bother me. All I can think
about is the track right now; the road races might as well be
next year.

It takes another hour to get through the metal detectors and
down to the gate. My ticket has been stamped with "SSS."
According to the apologetic TSA agent, this is a designation
handed out by the airlines which triggers the highest level of
personal searching before you're allowed to go to your gate. So
they open my toothpaste tube and I remove my laptop from its case
and turn it on, but honestly, I find the whole thing reassuring.
It's amazing how our mindset about this kind of stuff has
changed.

I finally get down to our gate at about 7:00 a.m. and no one
is there. I find this puzzling, because there were plenty of
people in front of me in the check-in line. I double-check the
gate number, my ticket and the departure board. I'm in the right
place. I decide to take a stroll through the terminal to look for
other members of our group. On my way up the stairs from the
ground level gate (you have to walk across the tarmac to get to
the plane) I encounter the Crane brothers, Ryan from Louisiana
and Farrell from Texas. "Can you guys think of a reason why there
would be no one at our gate?" I ask.

Ryan and Farrell look at each other, half smiling, half
concerned. Together, we go back down the stairs and take seats at
the gate. These guys are track specialists, I learn, and we chat
about velodromes. It's 7:10 a.m. No one else has shown up at the
gate. We double check our tickets again, and try to come up with
a hypothesis to explain the absence of our teammates. There's no
denying that at least one plausible explanation is that we are at
the wrong gate. "At quarter after, I'm going to start worrying,"
Farrell says, in his modified drawl. He's a non-practicing
lawyer, the older of the two brothers by 10 years. Ryan looks a
little worried, too, although he's less verbal about it than
Farrell and me. I later learn from someone else that Ryan is the
reigning national sprint champ in the 30-34 age group. You don't
get to that level of achievement on the track without doing a
little worrying.

After a while, the other members of our group start to drift
in. Who knows where they were? Maybe they just didn't feel the
compulsion to rush down to the gate and sit in plastic chairs for
an hour. Actually, it was an hour and a half, because it took
some extra time for the TSA to search all the bike boxes and get
them down to the gate.

They finally open the door, and we walk out onto the tarmac to
board the plane. It's 8:30 a.m., and already it is hot and humid
in Miami. The sun is shining brightly on this October day. We sit
and watch from the plane as they load luggage and bikes on the
little turbo prop. After a while, the luggage wagon pulls away
from the plane and heads on back toward the terminal. A couple of
suitcases and two modern looking gray bike boxes are all that
remain on the wagon. The bikes belong to Adam Smith, from
California. Adam is the guy that Ryan Crane beat in the finals to
win the sprint championship. Both his road bike and track bike
have been left behind. So much for the sorting.

The flight to Havana is not a long one. The plane, which seats
about 50, is mostly filled with bike racers and a few Cubans.
Travel by Cubans to Cuba for family visits has been cut back by
our government to one visit every three years, and the airlines
are feeling it. We head south out of Miami down along the Florida
coast and trace the long fingers of the Keys though beautiful
blue-turquoise water. The turbo prop flies much lower than a big
jet, and you can see boats and even whitecaps. Before long the
hulking mass of Cuba appears against the ocean. The air above the
island is a little less than clear. A smokestack or two rises
among the lush greenery.

We land at Jose Marti International Airport outside of Havana.
Jose Marti was a 19th century leader of the Cuban fight for
independence from Spain. The Spanish, fearful of this young
intellectual's influence, exiled him at age 17 to Spain, where he
attended law school. After getting his degree, he emigrated to
the US where he became a journalist and leader of the movement to
over throw the Spanish rule of Cuba. He was later killed in
battle while fighting the Spanish in Cuba. Jose Marti is right up
there with Che Guevara among the great men of Cuban history. The
airport they have named after him, however, is not the major
Havana international jetport. Rather, it is a small, one
terminal, one runway facility that seems to serve only flights to
and from the US. There is also a brand of cigar named after Jose
Marti.

We stand in several lines to wait our turn at the customs
booth. The customs official is cordial. She smiles and asks in
Spanish why I have come to Cuba. "Las carerras de las
bicicletas," I tell her, hoping this is the right way to say
"bike races" in Spanish. I add "Pan American. Masters" in my
faux-Spanish accent. She nods approvingly and smiles, then looks
at my passport photo, then my face. She stops smiling and shakes
her head. "Muchos anos pasados," I say. She smiles and
hands the passport back to me. I wonder if I've managed to say
"many years ago" correctly in Spanish. I wanted to say "another
life," but didn't know how.

The guy at the metal detector smiles when I say "hola"
and place my laptop on the conveyor belt. He says "Buena"
which, I believe, is short for buenas dias, a standard
Spanish daytime greeting, and waves me through. The laptop stays
in its case, my shoes stay on my feet, and in a flash, I'm in.
The Miami airport makes this place look like a summer camp. I
feel as if I have penetrated some huge barrier, and I guess I
have, as I head for Jose Marti's single luggage carousel. The
luggage is already starting to come through and is being taken
off the conveyor by Cuban guys hired, I think, by Mike Fraysse to
help us with our baggage. There are a few officials in khaki
uniforms around, both men and women. The women's uniform include
short tight skirts. I am not sure what the function of these
people is-they look like police-but I smile and say
"hola." They look me in the eye and smile warmly.

In short order, my two bikes and bag come through the
carousel. There is a line of standard airport luggage carts
nearby, with a guy standing next to them. I ask him how much.
"Cuantos?" One dollar, he says, in English. I give him a
dollar and he puts it in the machine, and gives me a cart.
"Gracia" I say, dropping the "s" in "gracias," like
I've heard native Spanish speakers do. He smiles, nods and gives
a little bow. Cuba does not have the most robust economy in the
hemisphere, to put it mildly, and this guy has a good gig here.
His job reminds me of the elevator operator they used to have in
the Hudson County Courthouse in Jersey City. You tell him what
floor you want, and he pushes the appropriate button. Nice work
if you can get it.

I load my stuff onto the cart and slowly push it toward the
exit. A lot of cyclists with loaded carts, are milling around,
unsure what to do. There is a barrier between us and the door,
but a gate is open. Next to the gates stands one of the
uniformed, short-skirted women. Beyond the barrier, I spot Cuban
Big John, an employee of the Cuban national cycling federation. I
have met this guy before, and he recognizes me. "Robert," he
yells, and waves me toward him. I calculate a line through the
other cyclists and their carts, and accelerate. Just about when I
hit full speed, the khaki-woman steps in front of the open gate.
I slow down, hoping my two bikes don't slide off the cart and she
steps out of the way just as I reach the opening. I smile at her
and say "gracias" as I go through. She smiles and says
"hola," dragging out the first syllable. You don't
pronounce the "h" so it's kind of like "ohhh-la" the way she says
it. It sounds cool.

I shake hands with and hug Cuban Big John. He's a friendly,
rotund man with a goatee whose job it is to greet visiting
cycling teams and assist them with their transportation and
accommodations. "Como esta?" I ask, dropping the "s." How
are you? "Bien, bien," he replies. The Cubans rarely reply
with just one "bien." Usually, it's two or more, something
like "well, well, well." I guess that means really well. "Y su
familia?" I ask. "Bien, bien." He's all portly
smiles.

I head out of the Jose Marti terminal, cool and dimly lit,
into the hot humid Cuban morning. Looking around for another
cyclist to follow, or some clue about where to go, I spot a man
in a classic Cuban white short-sleeved shirt with four pockets, a
guayaverde, they call it. He's waving me toward him. I go
through another gate, and he points at a yellow schoolbus parked
next to the terminal. This is our ride to the Hotel Tropicoco. I
wonder if the guy who pointed me in the right direction is an
employee of the Cuban federation, but when I see him walking away
from the terminal with a child, I conclude he was just a helpful
soul who knew more about where I was going than I did.

It turns out that we have two schoolbusses and a truck to take
our stuff back to the hotel. We head out onto highway, passing
little cars with no nameplates, made in Russia, I think, smoky
box-like trucks, and some American cars. Cuba is known for it's
classic American cars, and the Cubans are proud of them. But to
me, it's kind of sad. It's been illegal to import an American car
into Cuba since 1960, so all the cars you see are from 1959 or
earlier, some of them immaculately restored, some of them rusting
hulks. These cars are a symbol of Cuba's isolation for the last
45 years.

The Cuban landscape whizzes by at 50 mph. We're on a four lane
highway which is not exactly modern, but not exactly primitive
either. The road is bumpy. There are lots of potholes and defects
in the asphalt. The area we are traveling through, as we circle
south and east of Havana, is more rural than anything else. There
is a lot of low green vegetation, and no shortage of palm trees.
But there are also plenty of buildings along the road--small
houses, bigger apartment houses, some abandoned and crumbling
buildings, an occasional café or store--as well as a few
horses and cows. It's a rare building that doesn't at least need
a coat of paint.

Frequently, along the highway, we pass crowds of Cubans
waiting at bus stops. They are casually dressed, with most of the
men in long pants and most of the women in skirts, and don't look
particularly impoverished. We pass huge busses, tractor-trailor
busses like a railroad passenger car pulled by a truck, jammed
with people sitting and standing. You don't see these things in
the U.S. People stand along side the road, often in pairs, like
they are hitchhiking, but without their thumb out. I'm told that
the law in Cuba requires you to stop and pick up passengers if
you have space in your vehicle. That's illegal in a lot of places
in our country.

Before going to the Tropicoco, we have to stop at the
velodrome to drop off our track bikes. The velodrome is a large
concrete structure across the highway from the national soccer
stadium. Both were built about 10 years ago when Cuba hosted the
Pan American games. The Cuban driver of the truck and his
assistant make a big production out of backing the truck up to
the door through which we'll take our bikes to the storage room
Mike has arranged for us to use during the two days of racing at
the Velodromo Nacional Reinaldo Paseiro. In order to get
really close to the door, they need to back the truck under this
concrete portico type thing, which can't be any more than an inch
above the top of the truck. There is much discussion about this
dilemma. Standing in the shade, watching this show with a few of
our riders and a few Cuban racers, I have the bright idea that
they should let some of the air out of the tires to lower the
truck a little. One of the Cubans suggests, using hand gestures,
that when the truck is unloaded, it will rise and get stuck under
the portico-thing.

It is past lunchtime, it is hot and we have been traveling
since 5:00 a.m., but everyone is relaxed, no one seems frazzled.
We have been absorbed into Planeta Cuba, the warm sun, humid air
and friendly locals acting like a huge tranquilizer for the
high-strung American bike racers. Tranquilo is the word
Cubans sometimes use to describe their life-style. It means calm,
tranquil, relaxed, laid-back. And that we are, as we watch the
Cubans finally start to unload our track bikes and carry them
into the depths of the velodrome.

We can see the Tropicoco rising from the greenery as we
approach. It is a large blue six-story building that looks like
it could have been made out of Legos. It's all plain, conjoined
rectangles of different sizes. One of the women comments that
this hotel reflects a Russian style of architecture called
brutalism. There are lots of palm trees, and to our left we can
see the ocean. On the road along the beach that leads to the
hotel, there are several gray-uniformed and stern-looking
policemen, standing motionless. Their only weapons appear to be
nightsticks. These guys look like they mean business.
Fortunately, they are outnumbered by the palm trees.

We pull up to the entrance to the hotel. There are no visible
doors. It looks to be an open air building that you sometimes see
in tropical climates, like a few of the gigantic blue legos are
missing here and there. I can see some big leafy plants insidel
and I'm not sure whether they are in pots or actually planted in
dirt inside the hotel. The interior is dimly lit, even in broad
daylight. As I climb out of the bus, I see two birds fly into the
hotel, one chasing the other. Two uniformed security guards stand
inside the entrance, at the base of the steps that lead to the
front desk. Palm fronds nearly touch their head. A couple of
middle aged, European-looking blond women in bathing suits pass
by, headed toward the beach.

There are a couple of Cuban cyclists standing near the
entrance, leaning on their bikes, as we disembark. These guys are
here to hustle us for tires, tubes, gloves or whatever, Mike
warned when we pulled in. Cycling gear is in short supply in
Cuba, and what little equipment there is, these riders don't have
the money to buy.

When Mike Fraysse first visited Cuba five or six years ago,
the cyclists had nothing. The bikes were all 40 some years old,
like the American cars. There was no lycra, there were no
helmets, no jerseys. Since that first visit, Mike has brought
literally hundreds of bikes, frames and components from the US to
donate to the Cuban Cycling Federation. The equipment, donated by
American cyclists and bike shops, tends to be one or two
generations old, but the things we throw away in the US are
better than anything the Cubans could otherwise get.

Now, the Cuban cyclists that we race against have pretty
decent bikes-5 year old Cannondales, for example-and some sharp
looking clothing. The donated gear is given to the Cuban cycling
federation, which decide which riders get what. There is probably
some politics involved, but overall, it seems pretty fair. Mike
tells us not to give anything to individual cyclists we might
befriend. If we have anything to give away, we should give it to
the federation, and they will decide who needs it most.

I suppose this system makes sense. It's a socialist country.
There's no illiteracy, no malnutrition, no untreated disease. But
there is no material wealth, either. Oh yeah, and it's a police
state. I try not to be judgmental, but I wonder whether, if I
lived in Cuba, I'd be willing to let a couple of people starve so
I could have a nicer house.

I walk into the hotel, up the stairs and join the crowd of
newly arrived cyclists who are registering and milling about.
Cuban Big John is standing at the front desk, assisting with
registration. I walk up and ask him if he can get me a room on an
upper floor with an ocean view. Can't hurt to ask, I figure. He
talks to the girl behind the desk in Spanish, and tells me, in
English, "no problem." Those are two of the few English words he
knows. The room will not be ready for an hour, however, so I have
to chill for a while. Perfect. I turn my head about ninety
degrees and locate the bar.

As I walk toward the bar, I run into Mark Albert, bike racer
and owner of Westwood Cycle, a New Jersey guy with some serious
tatoos. In his hand is a cigar. "What's this," I ask, even before
saying hello. "Siglo VI," he replies with a grin, using
the Spanish pronunciation. The Siglo VI is a
Cohiba, introduced for the first time about a year ago.
For many years, the consensus among smokers of Cuban cigars was
that the best cigar in the world was the Cohiba
Esplendido. This was the cigar Castro smoked before he quit.
Now, however, it is the humble opinion of some of us that the
Siglo VI is better than the Esplendido.

"Is this for me?" I ask. Mark has been in Cuba for a week. He
knows I have just arrived, have no cigars, and want one badly. "I
had this in my mouth," Mark says. "I'll go upstairs and get you
one. I have a box."

"Sweet," I say. "Want me to get us a couple of beers?" Mark
nods. Later, I'll check into my room, put my bike together, get a
massage. For now, all I can think about is a Siglo VI and
an ice cold Cristal. I'm in Cuba.